


these walls (are meant to fall)

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Body Swap, F/M, Post Season 2, Romance, Sharing a Bed, So many tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 02:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: “What’s going on?” Karen says, sitting up. She looks down at herself—hands with too-long fingers, scars along her knuckles and a heavy weight around her chest. It’s a vest. She’s armed. She’s—Holy fucking shit.She’s Frank fucking Castle.(Or that body swap fic I’ve been threatening to write.)





	these walls (are meant to fall)

Someday, her life is going to be normal again.

It certainly isn’t this week, though, when Matt arrives on her doorstep and says, “A wizard is trying to steal some military equipment.”

Karen gapes at him. Puts her groceries down long enough to unlock her apartment, then says, “…You want some coffee?”

“Sure.”

They end up in her kitchen, drinking coffee out of Bulletin mugs. It was Ellison’s attempt at merchandising, and it went so badly that all of the writers ended up with them as their Christmas bonuses.

“So,” she says, when she thinks she’s had enough caffeine to say the words with a straight face. “Wizard?”

“Master of the mystic arts,” replies Matt, and even he can’t help but roll his eyes. “Or so they keep calling themselves. That guy with the glowing hand—Danny, you remember him? Came back to town and asked for my help. I agreed, and now it looks like one of these mystic arts assholes is trying to steal a miniature missile.”

“Why doesn’t the wizard just use the killing curse?” says Karen. Okay, maybe she hasn’t had enough coffee for this.

Matt snorts into his mug. “Don’t ask me—I’m just the backup.”

“And what am I?” asks Karen.

Math looks uncomfortable. “The wizard’s stealing it from some private defense company. We need a way in. And I thought…” He winces and looks a little uncomfortable. Since he returned from his supposed death, he’s still a little hesitant to ask her favors. Good—she appreciates not being a sure thing.

“Maybe if a Bulletin journalist walked in the front door with her two assistants, you could get inside?” she says.

He nods.

She puts her mug down. “When?” Between working at the Bulletin again and occasionally freelancing as an investigator for Nelson and Murdock, her schedule is pretty crowded.

“Tonight,” says Matt apologetically.

Karen lets out a breath. “Fine. What can go wrong?”

* * *

Everything, as it turns out.

For one thing, the wizards—yes, plural—get to Defense Contracts Incorporated (or whatever the place is called, Karen didn’t really look) before they do and blow the place wide open.

For another, Frank Castle shows up.

She isn’t sure how he heard about this—maybe there’s a Weird Shit in New York Slack channel that she hasn’t been invited to join. But he’s there, guns in hand, trying to keep three different wizards from stealing a few small missiles. Matt and Danny join the fight, and Karen pulls out her own gun just in case. She doesn’t rush to join the fight; rather, she creeps around the side of the building. There’s a bit of movement—and she’s right to notice it.

Because there’s a freaking apprentice wizard walking out with a box of antipersonnel mines.

“So this is what happens when the Hogwarts houses go all military?” says Karen, because she can’t resist.

The wizard apprentice is a young man in his twenties who looks like he should be at some hipster cafe. He has a neatly trimmed beard and shiny shoes. And he glares at Karen. “Oh, ha ha,” he says tartly. “Back off, lady. I’ve got—”

Karen fires a warning shot into the air. The wizard flinches, nearly drops the crate, and looks horrified.

“I’ve got a pistol,” says Karen. “Not as cool as a wand, but it’ll do. Now put the mines on the ground and keep your hands on your head.”

The wizard glares at her.

But he does put the crate down.

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” he says. Then he grins. It’s a rather discomfiting grin, and then his hand moves faster than Karen can react. She doesn’t want to shoot him, not really, but then—

Light flares between the man’s fingertips and she has only a moment to think, _How the fuck is this my life_, before Frank crashes into her. She feels the weight of his body and then the heat of the spell crashes into them both.

The world tips sideways. She can’t breathe and then she’s gasping, blinking hard.

Her knees hurt. Her cheek stings a little. And something feels strange—like an itch, just beneath her skin.

“Frank,” she croaks.

But it’s not her voice. It’s got a bit of gravel to it, that rough low tone she still remembers from those quiet moments in between the running and the gun fights. It’s a voice she knows, but it isn’t hers.

“Karen?”

Now that’s her voice—but she didn’t open her mouth.

“—The fuck?” Again, her voice. Then hands pushing at her, and she realizes she’s on top of someone.

Herself. She pressing herself into the ground, body a shield between that wizard and—

“What’s going on?” Karen says, sitting up. She looks down at herself—hands with too-long fingers, scars along her knuckles and a heavy weight around her chest. It’s a vest. She’s armed. She’s—

Holy fucking shit.

She’s Frank fucking Castle.

She meets the eyes of—herself. Wonders if perhaps this is a dream terribly gone wrong, and she’ll awaken in a few moments.

“—What the fuck,” says the person that looks like Karen. But Karen would recognize that tone anywhere.

“Frank?” she whispers. In that too-deep voice.

“Yeah,” he replies, because that is definitely him. Even in a red blouse with blonde hair tumbling down his shoulders. “Karen?”

She nods, and she has a feeling she’s utterly pale.

Then Frank’s gaze sharpens on something behind her and without hesitating, he flips them both. It’s fascinating, in a detached kind of way, to watch her body move like his, Karen thinks. She never considered herself ungraceful before, but there is a kind of predatory power to Frank’s stance, and even in her body, the threat is unmistakable.

He grabs the wizard by the shirt, kicks his legs out from under him, and throws him to the ground. “What the fuck did you do?” he snarls.

Karen looks down at—herself? Himself? Fuck, she’s going to just keep her original pronouns because otherwise this will be entirely too confusing.

The wizard looks horrified. “It wasn’t supposed to swap you two,” he blurts out.

“What,” says Frank, and it’s interesting to her hear own voice growl like that. “You thought you’d swap bodies with the woman and then escape in her body? Let her go to jail in your place?”

Going from the look on the wizard’s face, that’s exactly what he was planning.

“You son of a,” Frank begins to say, but then there’s an explosion from inside. His grip slackens on the other man and the wizard gets his hand up and there’s a flash of light and—

He’s gone.

Frank stands there, looking murderous.

There’s a few angry cries from inside, and Karen realizes that all of the wizards must have decided to flee. Leaving her and Frank like—

“Oh,” she says. “Fuck.”

* * *

It takes some explaining.

(“Fucking magic,” says Frank. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I heard they were just petty criminals trying to steal military equipment. Got a tip-off from a contact in Homeland.”)

Then there’s more explaining.

(“Wait,” says Danny Rand, gazing at Karen in astonishment. “Who are you again?”)

And then there’s decisions to be made.

(“We’ll track down the wizards,” says Matt. “You and… both of you—stay safe. Stay together. Maybe you’ll go back to normal, maybe the spell will wear off. If it doesn’t… we’ll find the wizards. Make them reverse it.”)

Which is how Karen and Frank end up back at her place.

She feels awkward in this different body; it takes three tries just to unlock her door with his fingers. They’re longer and a little thicker than she’s used to, with familiar calluses. Frank stands behind her, arms at his sides in a way that she never holds them, and it just looks weird.

Finally, with the door shut behind them, Karen says, “I need a beer.” She looks down at herself, then at him. “I mean… if that’s—”

“You can have a beer in my body,” he replies. “As long as I can have one in yours.”

“Deal.”

They end up at her kitchen table, drinking a microbrew and trying to avoid looking at one another.

“So how’ve you been?” asks Frank.

Karen snorts into her beer. “Really? That’s how we’re handling this?”

He looks grumpy. Which is interesting—she usually never gets to see those expressions play out across her own face. “Well, I’m not familiar with what a person does after they’ve been shoved in another person’s body. I thought magic was bullshit up until about two hours ago.”

“I knew there was some weird stuff in the world,” she admits, “but nothing like this.” She brightens. “Did you know dragons are a thing?”

“Now I know you’re shitting me.”

They drink their beers in silence for another moment. Then Frank says, “No, really. How have you been?” This time, there’s a note of quiet sincerity to it. As if he’s been holding the question back.

She lets out a breath. “Busy. I went back to work for the Bulletin after… well, after.”

“I heard about that,” he says, glancing sharply at her. “Didn’t find out until after or—”

“Or what?” she says with a small laugh. “You’d have come bursting into the Bulletin offices with a bulletproof vest and a rifle?”

“If you’d needed me, yes,” he says, and that stops her in her tracks. His walls are down and his face seems oddly disarmed. He sits the way he always does, with his legs spread a little and index finger twitching once or twice. She would recognize that posture anywhere, even if he’s currently wearing her body. She wonders how she appears to him, if he could pick her out of a crowd as easily as she could find him.

“Anything for a war, right?” she says softly.

He doesn’t answer.

She lets out a breath, looks down at her hands. Which are his hands. She’s always liked his hands—they’re nice to look at.

“Listen,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to pretend. I know you don’t want to be here.”

_With me,_ goes unsaid.

“Once we’re back in our own bodies, you can go back to punishing or whatever it is you do these days,” she says. “And you won’t have to see me again.”

“Karen.” He leans forward. “I—”

But whatever he is going to say, she doesn’t want to hear it. “I’m going to sleep,” she says. “I’ll just—take off your boots but leave the jeans on.” She goes to the linen closet and unloads an armful of blankets and sheets onto the couch. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” Then she turns and walks into her bedroom, quietly pulling the door shut behind her.

It’s late and she’s exhausted and her body aches in ways she isn’t used to.

Her shoulder hurts. Her knees pop when she kneels to unlace her boots. When she pulls off her socks, she discovers that Frank has a rather gnarly scar through the top of one foot. She runs her fingers—his fingers—across the mark. It feels strangely intimate to be touching any skin, and she isn’t sure she has the right.

So she doesn’t take off her shirt or jeans. She does leave the vest and the jacket draped over the back of a chair, though. As she glances into a mirror, she catches sight of her own reflection.

Frank Castle stares back at her—dark-eyed and haunted.

She crawls into bed and falls asleep at once.

* * *

She wakes and the first thing she thinks is: _I have to pee. _

Her second thought is: _I don’t know how._

She gets out of bed—and her knees are even creakier in the morning. Walking back out into the living room, she finds… herself. On the floor. Doing push-ups.

“Um,” she says. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Frank grunts. He’s wearing the same thing from last night: a comfortable work-out shirt and leggings, which she wore to a battle because pencil skirts aren’t great for running in. “You ever do upper body workouts?”

“Not really,” she says.

“You should.” He grimaces, then sits up. “You could punch harder.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.” She crosses her arms. “I—I have a question. About something we should probably talk about.”

Frank begins stretching—pulling one arm across his chest, then the other. She has a wild thought that she’d much prefer watching this little routine of his were he still in his original body. On her, it just looks weird.

“You mean the nudity thing,” he says frankly.

“Yes,” she replies. “I want to know how we’re going to handle this. Because—I kind of need to use the bathroom.”

He lets out a breath. “Unbutton, unzip, point and shoot. Be careful when re-zipping.”

“Okay.” She tries not to smile and fails. “I think my equipment is pretty self explanatory. At least I’m not due for my period for another two weeks.”

He blanches. “Oh. Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Most men wouldn’t,” she replies, with a laugh. “Yeah, teaching you how to use a tampon isn’t something I’m looking forward to."

He finishes stretching. “So we’re all right with this?” he asks.

“I mean, I want to shower at some point,” she says. “And—yes. I’m all right with you seeing me. Well, you. Christ, that’s confusing. I trust you’re not going to do anything stupid with my body.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says seriously.

She nods, and goes to use the bathroom. It’s—an experience, to be sure. She tries not to look too closely because she wants to give him some kind of privacy… but it’s kind of useless. She has his dick in her hand. His hand. Whatever. It’s a nice dick—a little over average size, and the skin is very soft. She tries not to think about that. She tries very hard.

She ends up taking a shower—and that’s when she sees the rest of his body. He’s about ninety-percent muscle and ten-percent scars. She runs her fingers down her own chest, touching raised places where he’s taken bullets. His body holds the memories of hundreds of fights, and it’s only looking down at herself that she realizes how close he must have been to death at least a few times.

And then there’s a problem.

Because as she’s showering, she gets a fucking erection.

It’s muscle memory. He probably jerks off in the shower. Karen glances down at herself, then lets out a breath. She’ll admit to a bit of curiosity. But curiosity isn’t enough to drive her to this. She glares down at her own dick. “Not a chance,” she mutters. “That’s a line I’m not crossing.”

Once she’s finished, she pulls on his clothes from last night. Frank made breakfast, thank goodness. She’s starving in a way she’s unused to—her own body can sometimes be rather indifferent toward food. In times of stress or panic, her appetite has a tendency to shut down. But now, she feel ravenous.

“Pancakes?” he asks, setting down a plate he must have been keeping warm in the oven. She hasn’t turned on that oven in months; she wasn’t even sure if it still worked.

“Thank you,” she says gratefully. He also made eggs and coffee and they end up eating in silence.

“So what now?” he asks, when they’re mostly finished.

She shrugs. “You should probably call in sick to work, because I don’t know how you’d pretend to be me at the Bulletin. Then… I guess we wait for Matt and Danny to figure this out.”

He does call in, then he looks at her. “I—should I shower?”

He’s giving her the option to say ‘no,’ which she appreciates.

She nods. “Go ahead. Towels are in the bathroom. I’ll clean up the dishes—thank you for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. He sounds as if he wants to say more, but he walks into the bathroom. Karen does the dishes and tries not to think about how he is getting undressed in the bathroom. About what he’ll see when he does. It’s only fair; she can now say she’s held Frank Castle’s dick, if only so she could pee.

She snorts quietly as she begins loading the sink with dishes.

About half an hour later, Frank emerges. His hair is damp, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He found some of her clothing; he’s dressed in jeans and a sweater—and what looks like a sports bra. He probably didn’t want to try one of her normal ones. Karen sits beside him on the couch and gestures to his hair. “You want me to braid that back for you? It’s the easiest way to keep it out of your eyes, unless you want to blow dry it.”

He hesitates. “I do know how to braid hair,” he says. “I used to braid Lisa’s hair. I’ve just—never done it on myself.”

“Come on,” she says, and twirls her finger in the air so he’ll turn around. He does, and she begins combing her fingers through the damp strands. She remembers braiding her friends’ hair in high school. A shudder rolls through him on the first touch and she goes still. “Sorry. If you don’t want me to touch—”

“No,” says Frank. “Nothing like that.” There’s a moment of quiet, then he says, “It’s just been a while.”

She understands. It’s probably been months since anyone has touched him. And she does know how sensitive her scalp can be—which is nice when someone wants to run their fingers through her hair. But it might be a little overwhelming for him.

She manages a simple french braid, tying it off between Frank’s shoulder blades. He sits quietly as she works, then she pats him on the shoulder. “Okay. Now you don’t have to worry about it going everywhere.”

He smiles, touches the braid. “Thanks.” There’s another bit of silence, and then he says, “You’ve got scars along your ribs.”

A little shiver runs through her. She forgot about those, if she’s being honest. She’s had them so long they’ve blended into the background.

“It’s from a car accident,” she says. “I crawled out on my left side after the car flipped. Some of the windshield glass snagged.”

“They’re faded,” he says.

“I was nineteen.” She looks at him—and thinks that if anyone in the world might not judge her for how she received them, it’s probably Frank Castle. But the morning is bright and sunny and she doesn’t want to darken it like that. “It was a long time ago.”

He nods, as if understanding that she doesn’t really want to talk about it.

“You want to watch some tv?” she asks, and he agrees.

They sit on her couch, drinking coffee and watching some sitcom. Or rather, she thinks, they both pretend to watch it. Neither really seems to be paying attention.

The truth of the matter is, she’s cataloging sensations: the rise and fall of her chest, the strength in her arms, the way her body seems to stay alert even when her mind wanders, and the slight ache in her knees. Everything feels sharper.

This body is different than what she’s used to, and it’s only now she’s truly taking it all in. It’s like… it’s like going from driving a normal car to one of those muscled-out Dodge chargers. She feels a little awkward, like she might accidentally break something. So she keeps very still.

She notices Frank wrapping his arms around his torso and she lets out a small laugh. “Cold?”

He glances at her. She can see him opening his mouth to say ‘no’ but then he huffs a breath. “Yeah. You’re cold all the time—how do you stand it?”

She reaches over and pulls a knitted blanket from the back of the couch, tossing it over his legs. “I’m used to it.”

He takes the blanket gratefully and pulls it around himself.

“Your knees ache,” she says, because she has to say something.

Frank smiles—and the expression makes her heart ache a little. “Oh. Yeah—they do when it’s cold. I don’t even really notice anymore.” He hesitates. “Can I ask about the scar on your thigh?”

“Bike accident,” she says. “I was fourteen and hit a patch of ice. The bike buckled sideways, a wheel snapped and a bit of stray metal gashed into my thigh. Tore right through my jeans. I had to waddle home and bandage it myself.”

A frown tugs at his mouth. “No doctor?”

“My mom was in the hospital at the hospital and Dad stayed with her,” she says. “It was just me and my brother at home, and I was supposed to take care of him. I managed.”

His frown deepens, cuts a line between his brows. He looks so much like himself in that moment that she has to look away.

“You don’t talk about your family,” he says quietly.

“Because I don’t have one anymore,” she replies. Her own voice is even. Her pain has dulled over the years—maybe it’s a little like his knees. It’s always there, but she’s learned to ignore it.

The quiet that fills up the room is the kind she can only share with Frank—sorrowful but not bitter. He gets it in a way that no one else does. And where others might press in, demand answers, he remains quiet. The sitcom buzzes quietly in the background, a laugh track rising and falling.

* * *

They end up going grocery shopping because she does need food. Particularly if they’re going to be stuck at her place for a few days. Karen grabs a cart and they meander into the produce section. Frank goes straight for the leafy greens because of course he does. Karen picks up a few containers of raspberries.

“They’re not in season,” says Frank, glancing at her.

Karen shrugs. “I like them.”

“You’ll have to wash them pretty thoroughly; they won’t be domestically grown.”

Karen has the wild impulse to pick up a berry and eat it right there, while maintaining eye contact the whole time.

She resists. Barely.

Frank ends up grabbing salad ingredients. A few of the store employees smile at him as he walks by, and he frowns. When they’re out of earshot, he mutters, “Why do they keep greeting me?”

“Because you have boobs,” she answers.

Frank narrows his eyes.

“You really want an experience?” she says. “Go to a bar. Alone.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he replies evenly.

They buy enough groceries for a few days and walk back to her place. Frank still seems aware of the eyes on him, and he looks less than comfortable with it.

He isn’t the only having trouble adjusting, though. Karen’s senses are—she wouldn’t say they’re heightened but her body feels as raw as an exposed nerve. She notices every passing car, sees the glint of sunlight on windshields, hears every backfiring engine. Her body is tense, fingers tight on the shopping bags.

She remembers reading a book about how trauma slips into the body, lingers in ways that no one expects.

And if this is what she’s feeling, she wonders what Frank is experiencing in her body. Her own memories are written beneath her skin. All he has to do is get behind the wheel of a car, step into the Bulletin’s offices, or walk into a church and he’ll probably know that something is wrong, even if he doesn’t know the details.

When they return to the apartment, Karen sticks the raspberries under the tap and lets the water run for a few moments.

Frank puts some of the groceries away in the fridge. They move in silence, and it’s only when she’s handing him a folded up paper bag that she realizes he’s putting them in the correct place beside the fridge.

Muscle memory.

It’s weird.

She wonders if she could draw a gun with the same ease she’s seen him do it—but then again, maybe she doesn’t want to find out.

The rest of the day passes in relative quiet.

* * *

That night, Karen dreams.

She dreams of a woman with dark hair and eyes who kisses her nose and says, _Hey, sleepyhead_. Of a little girl whose smile is everything good in the world. Of a little boy whose so much like her it hurts to think about sometimes. She dreams of a house that smells of the old wood of the piano and the neighbor’s mown grass. Dinosaurs scattered across the floor and motes of dust illuminated by sunlight.

Even without knowing where she is, Karen knows this is home. It’s perfect and safe and—

And a man strides into the bedroom. He’s dressed in dark fatigues, a heavy vest across his shoulders, a balaclava over his face. The dark-haired woman doesn’t see him, can’t see him. She’s turning to leave the bedroom and then the man raises that gun and pulls the trigger.

Blood spatter hits Karen in the chest.

The loss is staggering. It’s more than physical pain—it feels like her soul is being cut from her body, like she’s being unmade in every way that matters.

A scream rips through her; she comes awake gasping, clawing at the bedsheets.

It takes several seconds for the world to return to her. She’s safe, she’s in her bed, she’s safe, she’s in her bed.

Then the door crashes open and Frank is there. He’s carrying a gun and even in the low light, she recognizes the tight slant of his mouth. He’s ready to kill.

“What’s wrong?” he says, voice low.

It takes a few seconds for her to answer. “I—sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He glances about the room, but even when it’s clear there’s no threat, he still doesn’t fully relax.

“Dreams,” Karen finally says. “Nightmares.”

Frank sets the gun on the dresser, then steps toward the bed. Without thinking, Karen moves a little and makes room for him. It feels natural for him to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Should’ve known,” he murmurs.

Her heartbeat won’t stop thundering. She hates feeling like this—so keyed up that she could break apart with a single touch. Her body feels more like a cage than a comfort.

“I—I don’t think it was _my_ nightmare,” she says quietly, putting emphasis into the words.

Frank’s eyes flash up to meet hers. In the dark, those blue eyes almost look brown. They could almost be his eyes, the way they’re sinking into her.

The silence hardens into something painful, making every breath a little harder.

“What’d you see?” Frank whispers.

She shakes her head. “Just—flashes. Your house. I think it was your house. I only ever saw it in the dark but… it was daytime. Morning, I think.”

“What else?” His jaw barely moves when he asks the question. His whole face is still, set with some emotion she can’t identify.

“A woman,” she says. “A bedroom—white sheets and pillows. She wore a sundress and—and—”

She doesn’t know how to continue.

Frank exhales and the sound judders out of him. “Was it the masked soldier or the gangs?”

She looks up in surprise.

But of course he would know.

It’s his nightmare.

“Soldier,” she says.

He nods. “Yeah. That version’s been more popular over the last year or so.”

She can still feel the hot blood on her bare skin; it was so real she half-expects to look down and see it now.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Shit. If that’s—if that’s what you see every night—”

“Not every night,” he says. “Used to be like that. But it’s fading, as time goes on.” His jaw clenches. “Part of me hates that. Thinks I shouldn’t forget any of it, because it means I’m losing them.”

Karen reaches for him without thinking. She wraps her arms around him—and it’s strange because her arms are longer and he’s small against her. He tenses, then his fingers are digging into her bare chest. Holding on like he’s afraid of falling from a high cliff. She isn’t sure how long they stay like that. But Karen finally says, “Stay here the rest of the night? I’d rather—not be alone.”

She feels him nod. “Okay.” He pulls back, and then he’s slipping beneath the covers.

It’s surprisingly easy to give him a pillow and feel him settle onto the other side of the bed.

She reaches for his hand beneath the blankets. She squeezes his fingers and speaks quietly into the dark.

“I could feel how much you loved her,” she whispers. “How much you loved all of them.”

She hears his breath snag. His hand tightens on hers.

They stay like that for some time, that one point of connection between them, waiting for sleep to come.

* * *

The next morning, Frank works out again. It’s odd seeing it in happen in her body. But it’s even more odd when he insists on her joining him. They end up doing squats, push-ups, and a series of stretches. It actually feels sort of good, in a way that Karen doesn’t expect. It’s like this body was yearning for this release. Her lungs are accustomed to the burn, the muscles ready for the exertion. When it’s over, she feels energized rather than the exhausted.

Frank calls in sick again at the Bulletin. Karen ends up grabbing her laptop and working from the couch, at least trying to get a head-start on some research.

Frank reads a book at the kitchen table, having found her collection of guilty-pleasure mystery paperbacks.

Matt calls around two in the afternoon.

“We’re still trying to find the wizards,” he says. “No luck so far. How are you two doing?”

Karen glances across the room; Frank is still reading. He’s changed into sweatpants, having flatly stated that the jeans were too tight.

(“And why are the goddamn pockets so small?”

“Welcome to women’s fashion, Frank.”)

“We’re doing fine,” Karen says into the phone. “You just find those wizards.”

Frank mutters something that sounds like, ‘fucking ridiculous,’ but Karen ignores him.

“We’ll get it done,” says Matt, and hangs up.

* * *

The next night, Frank doesn’t even pretend to want to sleep on the couch. They go to the bedroom together, and it feels strangely comforting to have him there, only a few feet away.

If the nightmares come again, at least he’s in arms reach.

She reaches over and flicks off the light, curls onto her side and tries to rest.

Her sleep is blissfully dreamless. Even so, she wakes around three in the morning.

Frank is already awake. He sits on the edge of the bed, gazing at the far wall. There’s something in his posture that gives her pause.

“What is it?” she asks.

He shakes his head, doesn’t answer, and a wave of worry breaks over her.

She thinks of all the things that Frank might have seen in her dreams: Kevin’s death, the emptiness of the diner as her father told her to leave, Daniel Fisher’s body covered in blood, James Wesley’s blank stare, Ben’s funeral, the dark offices of the Bulletin as her coworkers lay unmoving, the colored lights of the church as Karen faced the man she thought would kill her.

Any one of those things could have visited him in his dreams.

And for the first time, this change feels like a violation. Like he could be looking into parts of her she doesn’t want anyone else to see.

“Frank, tell me,” she says. Because she needs to know.

Frank takes a breath, presses his fingers to his forehead for a few seconds. “It wasn’t a memory.”

“How do you know?” she asks, frowning.

Frank doesn’t look at her. He looks pale, as if all of the color has been blanched out of him. For a few seconds, he doesn’t answer. Then he says, “You have nightmares about losing me.”

“I have nightmares about losing everyone,” she says. She’s too tired to try and come up with a better way of saying it. “Because I do. It’s only a matter of time until you’re gone, too.”

“I’m still here,” he says.

“Only because you have to be.” There’s no rancor to her words. It’s just a statement of fact. “Once we’re back to normal, you’ll be gone.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. She waits for him to agree with her. After all, they don’t lie to one another. 

“You were wrong before,” he finally says. “When you said you didn’t have any family left.”

There’s no mistaking his tone—his voice is determined, and she recognizes the same tone from over a year ago_. I will come for you_.

“Frank,” she says, unsure of what else to say.

He meets her gaze and his is unwavering. “You want the truth? I didn’t go to that military warehouse because I got a tip-off. I went because I saw you and Red leaving your apartment, dressed for battle. I followed you there. Because if you were going into danger, I wasn’t letting you do so alone.”

“What were you doing outside of my apartment?” she asks. Her heart is pounding. Too fast and too hard. It hurts.

“Because I’d been working up the courage to talk to you,” he admits. “Because I wanted—shit. I was tired. Of all of it. The war, the bloodshed. I’ve had my fill of it—I was fucking choking on it. Ended up rescuing some kids a few weeks ago. Fought my way past the assholes who were selling them, slaughtered them all, then broke the lock to the cage.” He lets out a hollow, aching laugh. “You know what the kids did when they saw me? They cringed back. Wouldn’t come near me. And that’s when—fuck, I realized my kids probably would’ve reacted the same if they saw me then.

“I dropped the vest in the river that night,” he says, his voice quieting.

She reaches for him—because she feels like her heart might break if she can’t touch him in this moment. Her forehead presses to his.

There aren’t any words, not for several long minutes. She can feel Frank’s fingers tracing up her arm to her shoulder, then back down. Their breathes are close, every touch every movement slow.

“You aren’t going to lose me,” he murmurs.

It’s a promise he can’t really keep, no matter how much she wants to believe it. But it’s a comfort, and she wants to wrap herself up in it. She ends up settling back into the bed, his arms still around her, and she closes her eyes and tries to rest.

She wakes in the morning to the sensation of a face mashed against her bare back, a heaviness in her bladder, and a fucking erection jabbing at the sheets. She groans softly, turns her face not the pillows.

“Hey.” Frank sounds just as out of it as she feels. “You awake?”

“Time is it?” she mumbles.

“About ten. I got up to pee an hour ago, then came back to bed.” He shifts behind her, sitting up. But she doesn’t. If she sits up, he’s going to see. “You get some sleep?”

“Yeah.” She still doesn’t move, and she can almost feel him frowning at her.

“Karen,” he says. And her name’s a question in his mouth—and she understands it, even though she doesn’t reply.

Fuck it.

“How do you make it go away?” she mumbles.

“Make what go away?” Now he sounds really concerned, like they’re talking about two entirely different things. She feels him sit up. “Shit—is my back again? Listen, you just need to roll over. I’ll get some heat—it’ll go back to normal in a few days.”

His _back? _

Is there any part of him that hasn’t been hurt?

She cracks open her eyes and looks up at him. His bed hair is fantastic—blonde strands everywhere, a nest of tangles on his left side. She’s going to have to teach him out to get those tangles out.

“It isn’t my—your—back,” she says, finally.

He frowns down at her. “Knees?”

She sighs, presses a hand to her eyes. Her jaw itches with stubble and she really should shave it.

She rolls over and the source of her discomfort is apparently obvious.

He snorts out a laugh, rocking back onto his heels. “Oh,” he says. “That.”

“Yes,” she says, peering at him through her fingers. “That. How do you make it go away?”

“Wait it out,” he says blandly. “Or go into the shower and jerk off.”

“I—what?” She can’t have heard him right. He laughs again and it’s a sound she wants to hear more of. She sits up, puts her back to the headboard and glares at him. “You can’t be serious.”

He shrugs.

She feels herself frown. “Have… have you…?”

It takes a moment for him to get it, then he’s shaking his head. “No—fuck no. I wouldn’t—”

“I mean I wouldn’t blame you,” she says. “Multiple orgasms are pretty nice.”

He chokes on whatever he was going to say, and that’s kind of adorable.

“I wouldn’t,” he says again, when he can. “Not without…”

“Without what?” She isn’t even sure why she’s pressing this, but she does.

He meets her eyes. His fingers are tightly knotted in the sheets, and there’s a taut curve to his shoulders. “Not unless you wanted me to.”

It feels like there’s an abyss opening beneath her, like she could fall in at any moment; her stomach flips like it does when she misses a step on the stairs.

And for the first time, she wonders if perhaps her desire to have Frank near—maybe that isn’t entirely her. Maybe this yearning isn’t as one-sided as she thought.

Muscle memory is a hell of a thing, after all.

She isn’t sure which one of them closes the distance. All she knows is that her mouth is soft against his. It isn’t rushed, isn’t frantic, isn’t all of the ways she’s imagined kissing him in the past. It’s still and quiet and so very sweet. It’s _Do you want to_ and_ Yes_ all in the same breath.

It’s different; kissing her own body is a little strange. Her mouth is softer than the ones she’s used to, and the rasp of her own stubble is something new. But this is still Frank, even if they’re in unfamiliar territory. He’s still the person she trusts. Her hand strokes up his side, curls behind his shoulder. She wants to him closer, wants everything.

The kiss changes—shifts into something a little more hungry. Frank pushes her back against the pillows, and then he’s above her, hand at her cheek and tongue sliding against hers. She whimpers, and that’s a sound she didn’t even think Frank’s body could make.

He straddles her thigh and she can feel the telltale heat and slickness of her body’s sex—and then there’s her fucking dick pressed up between them. She pulls back, breathless.

“Oh God,” she groans. “You can’t tell me the first time we have sex, it’s when we’ve been body-swapped.”

“You want to stop?”

“Fuck, no.” She slides her fingers beneath his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing her to help. She gets his shirt off and there are own breasts staring back at her. “Hi girls,” she says, with a small laugh. “Never thought I’d miss having them.”

“They’re very nice,” he says, and he sounds so earnest that she laughs.

“Come on,” she says, and helps him wriggle out of the pajama shorts. Soon, they’re both naked in her bed—and he’s kissing her again and she can feel her own dick pressed up against her stomach and it’s weird and strangely arousing, and all she can think is, _Nope, my life has not gotten any less strange. _

“What do we do?” he asks, pulling away for a moment. “What do you want to do?”

She considers the question—and honestly, the one thing she’s thought about when it comes to Frank Castle in her bed is just… keeping him there. Making a place where he might feel safe enough to let his walls down, to let her in for once. She’s thought about going down on him, how it would feel to make him utterly lose control.

Well. She might as well try it.

“Can I go down on you?” she asks, and he flushes from cheeks all the way down his neck.

“You want to?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. Because she does—she wants him unraveled, relaxed, and she wants to give him something good. He deserves a few moments of peace.

He nods. “It won’t be weird?”

“All of this is weird,” she says. “I’m just embracing it, at this point.”

He laughs, quick and heartfelt, and his hand is in her hair. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, then.”

“Lay back.” She situates herself between his legs, gentle titling them apart. He’s soaked—and that’s familiar, at least. She kisses his thigh, then moves closer until she can smell the arousal coming off of him. Which probably shouldn’t be a turn-on, but knowing he’s just as into this as she is… it makes her a little dizzy. She strokes her fingertips lightly over his sex, then leans down to replace hands with mouth.

She knows how good this can be—she’s been on the receiving end of some fantastic oral. She knows how good the scrape of stubble can be on the inside of her thighs, the breath of a partner panting against her cunt, the slick heat of tongue and mouth.

“Jesus fucking fuck,” he says raggedly. This isn’t the first time Karen’s done this, but it’s been years and it takes a few moments for things to come back to her. Luckily, she knows what she likes and how her own body responds. She slides one of her fingers into him—slowly, because these fingers are thicker and a little more callused than she’s used to—and laps around the clit, just the way that always makes her own legs begin to shake.

She eases another finger into him, crooking them forward and rubbing at just the right angle. She’s been practicing her fingering since she was thirteen, so this part at least is easy. She envelops his clit with her entire mouth and sucks gently—making him cry out. It takes only a few more minutes until he curses again and she feels him come. His cunt clenches hard around her fingers and he groans loudly. She doesn’t stop until he’s panting and the muscles of his stomach jump beneath her hand.

“Okay,” he says, gazing up at the ceiling. “For the record, your body has the advantage there. Jesus.”

“Want me to try for orgasm number two?” she asks, grinning. “Other upside of having a vagina—multiple orgasms.”

“I think I need some recovery time.” He rolls over. “Besides, I’m not letting you have all the fun.” Frank runs his hand across her dick. It's good—she can feel her heartbeat there, twitching in time with her pulse.

“You ever done this before?” she says. “I mean, is it true what they say about sailors?”

“I was a marine,” he says, with a retributive nip to her shoulder. “And no. But I figure, can’t be too hard.”

She snorts. “Okay, but remember, you’re going to have to deal with the toothmarks if you screw this up.”

“I’ll manage,” he says dryly and then leans down to take the head of her cock into his mouth.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Okay, now she understands why men are kind of obsessed with this.

The heat of his tongue is mind-numbingly good and it’s all she can do to keep herself still. There’s an instinctive need to thrust, to move, but she holds back. His hand curls around the base of her cock, thumb running up the seam and she gasps. The air in the room suddenly feels too thin. Her fingers knot in the sheets as his cheeks hollow and the suction makes her whimper. She has to close her eyes, because she isn’t sure how long she can last like this. He works her over, tongue stroking the underside of her cock.

Then the sensation vanishes and she glances down. Frank is pressing his fingers to the place where his jaw connects to his ear, and he looks irritated. “You okay?” she asks, sitting up.

“Just appreciating all of my previous partners’ dedication to jaw exercises,” he says, wincing a little.

“I’m sorry, did you just backhandedly compliment the size of your own dick?”

“It was more about the neck craning,” he replies. “Going down on someone without a dick requires less… bobbing. It’s easier.”

“I love that you’re analyzing this.”

“Weren’t you?” he says.

She shakes her head. “Not the first time I’ve had sex with a woman.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “Well, well. One of these days you’ll stop surprising me—but not any time soon.” He reaches down, curls his fingers around her length. “You want to fuck me?”

She blinks. “I mean, the real question is if you want me to. I’ve never done this before.”

“I want you,” he says. “I’ve wanted you for so long—and if this is how it’s going to go, then I’m fine with it.”

“Oh, really?” She brushes her mouth against his—lightly, more a tease than a true kiss. “All right, if you’re sure.”

“Karen,” he says. “You’re the only thing I’ve been sure about for years.”

She kisses him again, and she hopes he understands what she’s trying to say. How much she cares about him, how he’s part of her, even when he isn’t here. He kisses back with the same intensity and she thinks—maybe he gets it.

He swings a leg over her hips, settling above her. She strokes one of his thighs, knuckles brushing back and forth. She knows how physical touch can help with nerves. She sits up enough to kiss him as he takes hold of her cock and tries to guide it in. There’s a few false starts—“Fucking hell, it’s still difficult from this side of things,” he grumbles—but then she’s sliding into him—into pulsing, silky heat and—

She’s inside of him, and there’s a mind-numbing intensity about it. And all at once, the sheer ridiculous of this situation falls away, leaving behind only need. She forces herself to remain still, to let Frank figure things out on his end. There’s a line along his forehead, and his face is scrunched up a little. She strokes her thumb along his cheek.

“You okay?” she asks.

He nods. “Just—takes some getting used to.” He rolls his hips and groans a little, head falling forward. “Is—fuck, is this how it always feels?”

“How does it feel?”

“Full,” he says, and again, she laughs.

“Again, complimenting your own dick?” she says, teasing.

“Not like that,” he says, and moves again, as if testing out a movement. “It’s just—hard to explain. Like something was missing, and now it’s not and—”

She knows what he’s talking about, and it has little to do with sex. She’s felt that only once before, back when she was in love and nineteen. When sex wasn’t just physical intimacy, but emotional, too. She wonders if love is something like muscle memory, if her body still loves Frank even if she’s no longer inside of it.

Well, she _is_ inside of her body but not like that.

There’s a clenching sensation and Karen jerks with surprised pleasure; Frank is tightening down on her, tensing inner muscles as if in experimentation. It feels amazing and she bucks a little, thrusting into Frank without meaning to. “Oh, God,” she groans. “Okay, now I get why every man I’ve ever been with went a little cross-eyed when I did that.”

Frank moves again, rolling his hips. He’s making a face like he’s tasting a new food and isn’t sure he likes it or not.

“You’re frowning,” she says. “Hey, we can stop—”

He shrugs. “No, I mean. It isn’t bad. It’s nice, but… I don’t know. I thought there’d be more.”

She grins. “Yeah, being on top was never exactly the best position for me. Roll over,” she says. His frown deepens. “Trust me,” she says, a bit insistent. “Hands and knees, chop, chop.”

He rolls his eyes a little but does as she says, getting on hands and knees. She takes a moment to admire the curve of her own ass before taking hold of his hips and easing back into him. A small gasp escapes him as she thrusts this time, and he groans.

“Better angle, right?” she says. She rolls her hips, slowly, the way that has driven her insane when past partners did it. “It’s gravity—makes the dick drag right against my g-spot, just enough to—” She sinks in a little deeper and he moans louder, almost a whine.

She takes pity on him, bending over his slimmer form and beginning to fuck him in earnest. It takes a few false-starts to really find a rhythm, and it’s harder than it looks. Being on this end of things is more work than she’s used to, and it requires a surprising amount of multitasking. Hands on Frank’s hips to keep him steady as she thrusts, trying to concentrate on not going too deep because being jabbed in the cervix is something she would never wish on a newbie, listening to the sounds he’s making, trying to gauge his body’s reactions to see if he’s anywhere close to coming because she is already having to stave off her own orgasm. She knows she can get him to come this way—she knows exactly what he’s feeling right now: the lightning-bright sparks of pleasure at being fucked at just the right angle, with the right pressure and—all right she’ll admit it—a larger than average cock.

Frank’s back arches. “Karen.” He is squirming a little, fingers clenching in the sheets as if unsure what else to do.

She thrusts a little faster, and this isn’t gentle at all but he doesn’t seem to mind as he arches back to meet her, his whole back taut. She feels when the tension breaks, when his cunt contracts around her, and it feels like she’s being sucked in even deeper and _fuck_, that’s too much for her and it feels like tumbling off a high ledge, like falling down the stairs, like gravity. Pleasure rolls up through her sac, into her cock, and then she’s spilling into him. She thrusts deeply, reason giving way to instinct as she feels another pulse of orgasm. Shit. It’s different than her usual orgasm; there’s a primal satisfaction in coming inside of him. He’s hers, if only in this moment. Hers to protect, to care for, to—

She drags in a ragged breath. Are those her thoughts or more muscle memory? She doesn’t know. 

For an eternity, they remain like that—breathing hard, as close as two people can be.

Things are never going to be the same.

But maybe that isn’t a bad thing.

She pulls out and he groans a little. She grabs a couple of tissues from the bedside table and hands them to Frank. “So we don’t stain the sheets.”

He blinks. “I—oh. Right.” He presses the tissues between his legs. Then his eyes flash wide. “We just—shit. I didn’t even think about—what if—”

“I knocked you up?” she says, grinning. “Or did you knock me up? That’s going to get confusing.”

He gives her a flat stare.

“I’ve got an IUD,” she says. “And yeah, we probably should’ve had the STI conversation before this happened, but…”

“I had a one night stand about eight months ago,” says Frank. “But I got tested after that. I’m clean and—and there hasn’t been anyone else. Not until you.”

She lets out a breath. “Well, you’ve been more social than I have. I haven’t slept with anyone for several years, and my last tests were clean.”

“Too busy?” he says.

“No, just pining after someone.”

For a moment, he frowns. Which would probably look brooding and strangely attractive on his normal face, but on hers he just looks kind of scrunchy-faced. Okay, now she understands why Foggy eggs her on sometimes.

“Please tell me you’re not talking about Red,” he says, as if he has to.

She rolls over onto her side, takes him by the chin and meets his eyes. Her eyes. This will never not be weird.

“I love you,” she says simply. “Creaky knees and all.”

He draws in a startled breath.

“But if you were just in this to see what sex with a vagina is like, I’d completely understand,” she says, a bit hastily. “I mean—”

He kisses her hard. Kisses her breathless. Until she is pretty sure that he’s going to have stubble rash.

“There isn’t anyone else,” he says again. “There isn’t going to _be_ anyone else.”

Well. What a note to end the morning on.

“And when Red finally gets us back into our normal bodies,” he adds, “I’m going to spend an hour going down on you.”

Nope. That’s the perfect note to end the morning on.

* * *

When Karen awakens the second time, it’s to a familiar ache between her legs.

It isn’t wholly unpleasant; it’s the aftermath of a bout of less than gentle sex, and she should get up and use the toilet, just to be sure she doesn’t end up with a bladder infection and—

She sits up. Looks down at herself. Breasts, stomach, pubic hair, pale legs—it’s her. It’s all her.

“Frank,” she says, with her own voice, and she missed that.

Frank comes awake at once, alert in a way that must come with practice. He looks around for a threat, fingers curling against the sheets as if to brace himself. Then he blinks. Looks down at his hands. “Oh thank fuck.” His voice is delightfully hoarse after sex, she is pleased to know. “We’re back to normal.”

“Looks like,” she says.

He looks her over.

She sniffs, then winces. “God, we smell like sex. I’m going to take a shower—care to join me?”

He smiles, and it’s a bit wolfish.

They have sex in the shower and it’s even better the second time, her leg twined around his waist and the warm water streaming across them both. She comes twice with him inside of her, the pad of his thumb resting against her clit so that every thrust has her gasping with pleasure. This time, she’s the one clenching around him and she can appreciate the girth and way he manages to hold off his own orgasm until she’s wrung-out and limp. And it’s far better to hear him gasp her name in that voice of his. It’s all kinds of sinful, the sounds she makes when he pulls out of her and his come drips to the shower floor and spirals the drain.

He helps clean her up afterward, a damp washcloth between her legs, and then he’s on his knees and her clit is against his tongue and he manages to wrangle a third orgasm from her. She is shivering uncontrollably when it’s over. He wraps a towel around her, dries himself off, and they return to the bed, not even bothering with clothes. She curls up in his arms, and it feels so good to have him here.

“Better in your own body?” she murmurs against his shoulder.

“More familiar, at least,” he says.

They’ll have to leave this bedroom eventually, but for now it’s warm and safe and comfortable. Karen finds herself drifting off in his arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing soothing.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Frank sits up. Glances down at Karen, who is utterly naked, then then he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll deal with it, whatever it is,” he says, taking her robe from its hook on the door. It’s a little frilly and pink—it was on sale. He pulls it on, and it’s a little too tight around the shoulders.

Then he strides out of the bedroom. Karen listens as he pads across the floor and then there are voices at the front door.

It’s Matt.

“Karen,” he says, and he sounds disappointed. “Oh—no. I tried, last night. Danny and I—we thought we fixed it. We went to Doctor Strange and he said he’d make things right but… but I guess he didn’t. Listen, we’ll find a way, so you don’t have to—”

“You did,” says Frank.

Matt pauses. “Did what?”

“You fixed it,” says Frank.

There is a moment of silence. Rather heavy silence. Karen presses the heel of her hand against her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“…Frank?” says Matt.

“Good guess.”

Another pause.

“Is that… are you wearing Karen’s clothes?” says Matt.

“I am,” says Frank, agreeably. “Thanks for fixing this. I’ll let her know you stopped by.”

There is the sound of a door shutting and when Frank walks back into the bedroom, Karen is shaking with silent laughter.

“You good?” he asks, and she leans over to kiss him.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’m good.”


End file.
